Siren

by Tricia Rayburn

  “Of course.” Simon smiled as he glanced at the boat. “Captain Monty, we wondered if you knew anything about Caleb.”

  Captain Monty’s furry white eyebrows dropped. He looked at Simon, like he couldn’t believe he’d asked such a thing, then at me, like I had something to do with it. He took a pencil out from its resting place above his ear, slid a yellowing stack of charts on the counter in front of him, and examined them.

  “I know he hasn’t been around the past week or so—that can’t be good for business, and I’m sorry he left you in the lurch right at the start of the season. But did he happen to say anything to you about where he was going?”

  Captain Monty bent closer to the papers on the counter and made some notes. It seemed like he either didn’t hear us or was going to ignore us until we gave up and left, but then he started chuckling. Softly at first, and then louder, until the sound spurt through his chapped lips and his shoulders shook.

  Simon smiled. “Did I miss something?”

  “I’m sorry—really. I don’t mean to laugh.” Captain Monty heaved a big sigh. “It’s just, your brother’s something else. I give him a job, decent pay, free gas, all the squid he can fit on a hook, and he just ups and leaves. I felt like a fool when he just stopped showing up without saying a thing to anyone. But obviously, I wasn’t the last one to find out.”

  “Find out what?” Simon asked.

  Captain Monty looked at Simon over the top of his glasses. “That he quit. That he left me for a pay raise I couldn’t give him ten years from now and a couple of fancy polo shirts.” He frowned. “Not telling me is one thing—but not to tell your own brother? You’d think that’d be a pretty good sign that something’s wrong with the decision you’re making.”

  “Captain Monty, I’m sorry … you’re saying Caleb quit? For a few extra bucks?”

  “And some fancy polo shirts. You can get one yourself, if you want. I hear they sell them in the gift shop.” He turned from us and pulled a yellow tackle box from the shelf above his small metal desk. “The fancy Lighthouse has fancy everything—gift shop, restaurant, manicures, massages.”

  “Caleb left here for the Lighthouse Marina Resort and Spa?” I asked. The Lighthouse had opened last summer and quickly gained a reputation as the most exclusive, expensive destination within a hundred miles of Winter Harbor. It had been resisted by locals but pushed by several powerful summer visitors, who got approval largely because the project created hundreds of new jobs.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Simon said. “He loved working here. He counted down the days from when you wrapped up the last boat for the season after Columbus Day until you unwrapped them again around Memorial Day.”

  Captain Monty poked through the tackle box compartments. “And I loved having him here. Your brother was a good boy, a hard worker. But listen, things change. Boys grow up. He did what he did for his own reasons, and I don’t fault him for that. I just wish he’d felt he could’ve told me himself.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, if Caleb didn’t tell you himself … who did?”

  Captain Monty raised his eyes to Simon’s. “You know Carsons? That guy they just found washed up on Mercury Isle?”

  “Yes,” Simon and I said at once.

  Captain Monty nodded. “It was him. He was one of the main Lighthouse backers, and he came in at the end of last summer, the third day Cal hadn’t shown without a single phone call. He wanted to introduce himself and thank me for the great dockhand I’d sent over as a welcome gift from the town. Can you believe that?” He sighed, exasperated. “Anyway, that’s apparently what Cal told them. That’s what he wanted them to believe. So … I let them believe it.”

  “Sorry.”

  I held my breath.

  “Carsons came in to thank you for Caleb at the end of last summer?”

  “August twentieth,” Captain Monty said. “The day of the shark tournament—I remember because your brother always loved measuring the catches.”

  Simon was looking at Captain Monty expectantly, as though waiting for the punch line, the “gotcha.” But none came. And I knew what Simon had to be thinking—How? How had he not known? How had Caleb not told him? How had an entire year gone by without someone cluing him in?

  They were the kinds of questions I was all too familiar with.

  Captain Monty looked at Simon. “Is everything okay? I mean, outside of the fact that you had no idea what your little brother was doing with his spare time all year?”

  I looked down. I knew he now had to be wondering if Caleb was really missing at all, or just off doing something else he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about.

  “Everything’s fine,” Simon said. “Just a little miscommunication, I guess.”

  “Happens to the best of us. Just wait till things get serious with this one here—then you’ll be miscommunicating all the time.”

  I smiled politely when he winked at me.

  “You take care of yourselves,” Captain Monty called after us as we pushed open the office door. “And watch out for the sharks!”

  I froze at Captain Monty’s warning. “Sharks?”

  “They’ve been busy this summer,” he said. “Fish carcasses are littering the beaches, and boaters have been reporting sightings. Some folks even think that’s what happened to Carsons—he wasn’t too banged up, but they think a shark might’ve dragged him out before losing its grip in the current. If he was in deep enough water, it would’ve been impossible for him to swim back to shore in that storm.”

  I shook my head against the dull alarm sounding inside as we left the building and started across the parking lot. By the time we reached the Subaru, I’d managed to muffle it enough to focus on our current task.

  “I don’t get it,” Simon said once we were in the car. “This wasn’t just some summer job to Caleb. He never worked here for the money—if that was what mattered, he would’ve gotten in at one of the restaurants, parking cars or busing tables.”

  “Do you have any idea why he didn’t tell you?” I asked gently.

  He stared through the windshield. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. I mean, we didn’t talk that much while I was at school, but if he quit on August twentieth, I was still here. I didn’t leave for orientation until the following week. We did a lot of fishing those last few days … he didn’t say anything.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you to worry? Or think something was wrong when you were about to leave and had enough going on?”

  “Maybe,” he said, his voice doubtful.

  “Do you want to check around some more? See if any of the other guys know anything else?”

  He shook his head and started the car. “You’ve seen the shrine to Monty in Caleb’s room. All those pictures and charts. He wouldn’t have told anyone anything he didn’t tell Monty first.”

  I paused. “Except Carsons.”

  “Except Carsons.” Sighing, he put the car in drive.

  Fifteen minutes later the view through the Subaru’s windshield changed from commercial fishing boats and modest motorboats to two-story ivory yachts sitting so still on the water they could’ve been on land. Women sunbathed and men played cards on the sprawling decks, while kids were nowhere to be seen—most likely because they were indoors, holed up with movies or video games in what had to be high-tech screening rooms.

  Apparently, members of the Lighthouse Marina Resort and Spa joined not so that they had a place to anchor after a day on the water, but to have a place to anchor instead of going on the water.

  “This isn’t Winter Harbor,” Simon said, watching a Lighthouse employee haul a case of Perrier up a ramp leading to The Excursion. “This isn’t Caleb.”

  As a silver-haired older man in khaki shorts and a pink polo shirt greeted a kid at the top of the ramp, I pictured Justine’s bulletin board. I could see the application, Mom’s Post-it notes, the bold college logos as though they were plastered to the windshield in front of me instead of stuck to the corkboard three hu
ndred miles away. And in the middle of it all—the blank personal essay. I no longer knew who Justine was, so I couldn’t guess at who she wasn’t.

  You can look all you want … but he has to want to be found….

  “Justine wasn’t going to Dartmouth,” I said, my voice level. “For the past year she slept in a Dartmouth sweatshirt, carried a Dartmouth key chain, and used a Dartmouth umbrella when it rained. She convinced everyone who knew her—including me—that that’s where she was headed at the end of the summer. When my parents asked about bills and paperwork, she told them it was taken care of.” I turned to Simon when I felt his eyes on me. “But she lied. She didn’t even apply. I had to find out by myself because she didn’t tell me. And now she’s not even here for me to ask why.”

  I felt better, lighter, as soon as the words were out. The guilt of not knowing was still there; that wouldn’t go away when I said the truth aloud.

  But at least now there was someone who could understand. Because Simon’s head fell gently against the headrest as he looked at me, and I knew he felt guilty, too. I didn’t want him to, nor did I think he should … but I also knew he couldn’t help it.

  “We’ll find him, Vanessa,” he said, reaching one hand across the empty Squeezed cups and lifting a few stray strands of hair from my forehead. “I can’t promise much, but I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “WHEN ARE YOU coming home?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Your father says you’re not sleeping.” Her voice was tense; I could picture her in her signature black pantsuit, her laptop open on the kitchen table in front of her.

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Your father says you’re not.”

  “When?” It was pointless to be annoyed, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “When did Dad say that?”

  “This morning.”

  “It’s seven thirty. Dad rolled over and managed ‘Vanessa’s not sleeping’ before you jumped out of bed and on the treadmill?”

  Mom paused. “Vanessa, I will not apologize for being worried.”

  “Fine,” I relented. “I apologize.”

  “Thank you. Now, how are you, really?”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Are you about done doing whatever it is you’re doing up there? There’s a wonderful exhibit opening at the Museum of Fine Arts this weekend, and I’ve got tickets to the VIP reception. It’s a garden party, and I saw a fabulous dress at Saks that would look stunning on you.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be back in time. But thank you for the thought.”

  “Sweetie, I know this is difficult, and I don’t blame you for wanting to hide out. Do you think I don’t need to talk myself out of bed every day?”

  I did, actually, but knew better than to say so aloud.

  “But people need people. Especially in times like these. That’s why I went back to work.”

  “I have people here,” I said.

  “You do?” Her voice rose on “do.” “Like whom?”

  I looked at the kitchen entrance to Betty’s. Probably better to leave that one alone for now. “Simon. He’s home for the summer.”

  “Vanessa,” she said, now sounding as concerned as if I’d said that Simon and I had just returned from a shotgun Vegas wedding. “I don’t know that that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not? You love Simon. He was the one you guys always left in charge whenever you, Dad, and Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael went out.”

  “Yes, I know … but things are different now.”

  “Things, yes—but not Simon.” I paused. “He’s looking out for me. I thought that would make you happy.”

  “What would make me happy is if you came home. The garden party is Saturday night. Why don’t you just relax today, think about it, and call me in the morning?”

  I wouldn’t change my mind, but I told her that sounded like a good idea and hung up.

  Mom was right about one thing: being around people helped. That had been confirmed when I returned to the empty lake house last night. I’d left the lights, TV, and radio on that morning, but after spending all day with Simon, they’d only served as glaring reminders that I was alone again. I’d considered inviting him over to watch a movie—I’d even picked up the phone and dialed—but eventually decided against it. We’d already spent so much time together, and it had been a tiring day; he’d probably needed a break.

  Which was why I was already at Betty’s Chowder House at seven thirty the next morning.

  “Back so soon?”

  “Good morning,” I said, getting out of the car. Louis stood on the stairs leading to the kitchen door, smoking a cigarette. Garrett stood next to him, drinking coffee.

  “Hon,” Louis said, taking a long drag and letting it out slowly, “you won’t find anyone more supportive of a good time than me—but the summer’s barely begun. You might want to pace yourself.”

  “Maybe you should look into a chaperone,” Garrett said with a smile. “I usually work days, so would be happy to help keep you out of trouble at night.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said, starting up the steps. “But I’m fine. My Betty’s breakfast was not only healing, but preventative. I might never feel sick again.”

  Holding the cigarette between his lips, Louis opened the door for me. “Paige is on silverware duty. She could use your help.”

  “I’m off at seven!” Garrett called after me.

  I scooted inside and found Paige quickly. She stood over a big red plastic bin at the back of the main dining room, tossing knives and forks into a sorting container.

  “Twice in three days?”

  I spun toward the voice behind me—and pressed my fingertips against my temples. Maybe I’d spoken too soon when I’d said Louis’s breakfast had had preventative powers. Because that fleeting migraine that had hit two days ago, when I was on my way into Betty’s kitchen for the first time, was back.

  “There are twenty other restaurants in town.”

  My eyes were scrunched up against the pain, but the scowl on the waitress in front of me was clear.

  “And, let me guess—no reservation?”

  “No.” I recognized the waitress as the one who’d spoken to me by the Dumpster two days ago. “But—”

  “Vanessa!”

  I smiled as a handful of utensils clattered into the bin.

  “Paige, do you see swing sets? Seesaws? A sandbox?”

  “Simmer down, Z,” Paige said, coming up behind me. “Vanessa’s not here to play. She’s here to work.”

  Z. Short for Zara, waitress extraordinaire—the one who’d yelled at Paige from the bottom of the stairs leading to the balcony two days ago. I could see the resemblance—they both had the same dark hair and silver-blue eyes, though Paige’s features were softer, plainer—but considering their personalities, it was still hard to believe they were related.

  “I’m just here to lend a hand,” I explained, not wanting to get Paige in trouble. “Temporarily.”

  Zara’s eyes narrowed. “Betty’s Chowder House is a fifty-year-old institution. People travel here from all over New England for our famous lobster chowder. We have a sterling reputation and won’t risk tarnishing it just because my brilliant little sister thought an at-work ally might make sorting silverware more interesting.” She yanked a pad and pen from her apron pocket. “Have you ever even worked in a restaurant?”

  I glanced at Paige. “Not exactly, but—”

  “Z, Louis said it was okay. I guess you were too busy wooing your customers to notice, but he let her help in the kitchen the other day, and she didn’t break one thing. That’s got to be some kind of record.”

  I waited, feeling embarrassed, awkward, and also impressed. Zara was clearly used to running the show, and Paige was clearly used to putting her in her place when necessary.

  “You’ll work as a team,” Zara said finally. “Paige will lead, and Vanessa, you’ll be her extra set of hands. As soon as a plate, b
owl, glass, ketchup bottle, sugar packet, whatever, leaves her fingers and heads south, grab it.”

  “I’m off silverware?” Paige asked.

  Zara looked at her. “You let one thing hit the floor, your friend’s gone, and you’re back to Spoon Central.”

  Paige squealed once Zara left, then took my hand and led me through the kitchen doors.

  “Paige,” I said when we reached a closet in the back of the kitchen, “no offense, but if you’re such a physical threat to Betty’s, how are you still here? I mean, Zara kind of seems to have it in for you … and if Betty’s is so busy, and the reputation that important, then wouldn’t they be a little hesitant to keep someone on who they think needs a lot in the way of—”

  “Babysitting?” Smiling, she grabbed an apron from a shelf and held it up for my approval. “Z’s the only one who thinks I need to be monitored like a toddler in a roomful of electrical outlets. And since she’s my older, control-freakish sister, I forgive her for it.”

  I took the apron from her. “But you do break a lot of things, don’t you?”

  “Of course!” She handed me a pad and a pen. “And would it be better if my fingers weren’t quite so slippery? Maybe … we’d save some money, that’s for sure, but there’d also be a huge entertainment gap among the staff.”

  I tied the apron around my waist and took the pad and pen.

  “But what most people care about is that I’m here at all. And by most, I mean everyone but Z.” She leaned toward me. “I don’t know if you noticed, but my sister is not the easiest person to deal with.”

  “Seriously?” I joked.

  She tugged on the bottom of my apron until it hung evenly. “The staff isn’t very fond of Zara, but the customers—male customers, especially—love her. Thanks to genetics and a certain charm, she can up-sell Coke drinkers to Corona, convince fathers to order something more expensive than grilled cheese for their picky kids, and get husbands to push their weight-conscious wives to take on brownie sundaes. All without making them believe they didn’t think of any of it themselves.” Her eyes met mine. “If Zara didn’t bring in at least a thousand dollars in tips one night, then we were closed.”